


Short stories

by Vaecordia



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Character Analysis, Drabbles, Jealousy, Laughter, M/M, Short, The Watcher's Crown, Tickling, Web!Martin, as if i know how to do dialogue lmfao, implied sex, jonmartin fluff, like just martin angst, more tags added as i write more, non graphic sex, past JonElias, peter is a creep, various - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 03:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18651637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaecordia/pseuds/Vaecordia
Summary: An assortment of short drabbles, inspired by tumblr prompts or other. More warnings/tags will be added as necessary.





	1. Index

Index

1\. Coronation (Jon/Elias, T)

2\. Jealousy's a fickle beast (past-Jon/Elias, implied Jon/Martin, G)

3\. Three lies (Peter/Elias, T)

4\. (unsent) (Various pairings/characters, M)

5\. Shame (Peter/Martin, M)

6\. Laugh (Jon/Martin, G)

7\. Urge (Martin, implied Jon/Martin, G)

8\. Proscenium (Peter/Elias, G)

9\. Cadmean Victory (Martin, implied Jon/Martin, G) 


	2. Coronation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias looks intoxicating, almost divine, in that moment.

Holy − that’s the only word on his tongue in that moment. Elias looks intoxicating, almost divine, in that moment. Eyes fixed on the book, words slipping from his lips like gentle, quiet prayers. Each word, though they should be inaudible from where Jon is, sounds clear and bright in the soft, greening halo of light encircling them. He knows the others are right above them, feeling the effects, feeling every second, but not quite part of it enough to have their presence in the sacred heart of the rite.

Elias tastes of heaven, when their lips meet, and he feels himself slipping much closer to that dangerous edge he’s been teetering over for a year now, tempted between humanity and the heady feeling of power of the Archivist − no more human than the other man he’s with, whose hold on him is tight, searing. He feels his attention slipping for but a moment, and suddenly he can feel the whole Institute abuzz in his mind, his eyes closed as Elias tilts his head, his Eye open as he feels brought so far past the point of caring and of no-return that he lets himself fall into the feeling.

It doesn’t matter what he thinks in that moment, because he knows that when he opens his eyes again, it’ll be entirely different.  _King of a new world, Jon, doesn’t that sounds exhilarating?_  Elias had said, grey eyes shining in the dimmed lights, his lips crooked, his voice soft. And this was their crowning, feeling as his mind seeped much further than ever, and he feels that door he’s so hard tried to keep shut, fling wide open, and he drowns in the new era he’s creating. Elias smiles against his lips. Jon can barely catch his breath enough to call it  _beautiful_.


	3. Jealousy's a fickle beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon tells Elias to stop being an asshole, Elias doesn't take it well.

“What is _wrong_  with you, Elias.” Jon all but spits the words at him, irate and with a definitely sickened look on his face. It’s not a look Elias has missed. Jon doesn’t even bother to throw in the added compulsion, and Elias knows either it’s laziness, or the fact he doesn’t even really care for the answer.

Probably the latter. “Either you’re going to have to be more specific, or I’m sure Tim can put together an entire list-”

Jon sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “Do you ever think you could at least _pretend_  you’re human?”

Elias’ chuckle is soft, all cotton wool and honeyed. “I don’t understand what the point of pretending is. You should rethink your priorities as well, I should think. Is it pretending to be human, or living with the way you are?”

“I can be the way I am, and still not act like a self-righteous-”

“Come, now, insults never helped anyone. Now if you could tell me why you’re storming in here, ruffled up as you are, it would greatly help your case.” Elias shifts in his cot, hands clasped in his lap and leaned back leisurely against the stone wall. Even in prison, he looks ready to attend a board meeting.

“I listened to the  _tape_.”

“Congratulations?” It’s not a question, it’s a derisive joke of feigned ignorance. Jon knows Elias is aware of what he means, yet Elias chooses again that thin, translucent veil of lies. For a man so smitten with a being of brutal truth and unbridled knowledge, Elias is a hell of a liar.

“No, Elias, I mean what you did to Martin.”

“Ahh. And so you’re… shaken because I put an employee in his spot?”

A dry scoff. “No, I’m angered by the fact that you feel so entitled to me that you refuse to leave. Martin. Alone.”

“Isn’t he working with Peter, now?” Elias’ smile is almost predatory, and Jon has half a mind to just walk out and find Martin and apologise to him himself. But that’s not how any of this works, because Elias made things complicated, shoved his spidery fingers into the already-messy affair, and Jon’s not about to let that slide.

“Elias, leave. Him. Be.”

Elias walks up to the bars, and leans against them without a care in the world. He knows exactly what Jon’s thinking. “Is this because you feel sorry for him or something?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said you listened to the tape, you know how he feels about you. Are you sorry for him? Don’t act like you’ve grown feelings for him.” Elias can feel the flare of Jon’s barriers, and his smile curls the corner of his mouth. “Well, well…”

“Cut it out, Elias. Leave him alone.”

“Oh, he’s quite alone, yes.”

“Are you jealous? Is that what this is about?” Jon asks, and his voice is harder, but it sounds -  _no, feels_  - like he’s pulling and picking at his mind, wanting to drag those words from Elias.

_Yes,_  he wants to say. “No,” he lies.

Jon can probably tell anyway, but he has the grace not to say anything. “Don’t do that again.”

Elias can tell he’s so painfully in love with  _Martin_ , the sweet, tender-hearted Archival assistant, and it annoys him to no end. Christ, if Peter visited again his thoughts might stop drifting to his _ex_ of all people. “Whatever you say,” is his response, saccharine words all too sweet, but Jon gives him one last warning look.

_Good luck getting him away from Peter, I hear he’s even more possessive than I,_ is all that goes through Elias’ head as he watches Jon leave.


	4. Three Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias is a mystery of a man. Peter's curious.

“I barely know you.”

“I think you know me quite enough.”

The silence is heavy, but not strange. He never thought Elias was the kind of man to smoke. Then again, neither of them is a man, so does it really make a difference?

“Tell me something,” Peter asks. Elias’ hum is gentle, flicking his wrist to extinguish the small flame of the match. He relaxes against Peter’s chest, as Peter’s hand runs against his arm.

“Does it have to be a truth?”

Peter thinks for a second. “No.” There’s a brief pause of smoke and silk sheets before he speaks again. “Three lies and a truth.”

Elias raises an eyebrow, unseen by Peter. “You’ve always been a gambling man, haven’t you?” Emotions aren’t Peter’s forte, perhaps, but his eyes betray every feeling he wishes he felt. Maybe it’s only Elias who can see that. Maybe it’s better that way.

“Alright, I’ll think of something.” They lie there, for a few ticking minutes. Elias’ voice is quieter when he speaks. “I have an easy one, to start off.”

“It’s going to be a lie, isn’t it?”

“You don’t know that yet.” Elias shifts so he’s leaning up, pressing his lips under Peter’s ear. “I quite enjoy being alone.”

Peter laughs, waves crashing against rocks in a grey sea, much harder than is necessary, but Elias doesn’t comment on it. “You’re a poor liar, Elias, but I expected better than that.”

“I said it was an easy one.”

Peter hums. “You hate loneliness. That’s why you can barely stand me for a few evenings in a row.” Elias smiles against his skin. “And what about the rest?”

“You’ll get them soon enough.”

* * *

It’s three days before Peter receives a message from Elias. He’s already put the other lie Elias gave him into the small booklet he carries with himself everywhere, full of the names of people and ships he needs to remember but for some reason can never quite latch on to well enough. He opens the text.

_Elias said: I’ve never been in love._

Peter thinks hard on that one, for a moment. He doesn’t respond to Elias’ message, and he knows Elias doesn’t expect him to. He writes it down, underneath the previous one.

 He knows what he hopes of that one. Elias is a closeted romantic, liberal with his sex, prude with his feelings. A man like Elias isn’t too easy to sway, yes, but he’s not very good at handling himself on his own. Since the first one was most certainly a lie, so is this one.

* * *

It takes a month more for him to receive the next one, and he knows exactly why it takes that long. He’s been at sea, wandering the endless blue in a quiet abandon. It’s refreshing. But the call is even moreso.

_"How was your trip?”_

Oh, he could lie about it and weave small talk as much as his heart desired, but he knows Elias doesn’t want any soft-toned futilities. “Impeccable boredom.”

That’s perhaps not the answer Elias expected, as Peter hears the chuckle on the other end of the line. _“I don’t doubt it.”_

“Well?” They both know why he called, of course. Elias doesn’t do anything unless he has a very specific purpose, and calling to hear how he’s doing is not something either of them particularly care for.

_"I don’t miss being human.”_

 It’s always the third that is true. A strange tendency of people to put the ‘odd one out’ as the third element of a list. “You’re a creative man, Elias. But this one isn’t.”

There’s a thoughtful hum on the other side of the line, secrets and tunnels that Peter has no access to. Then again, that’s always the same with Elias. Peter doesn’t know half as much as he wants to about him.

_“I suppose I’ll see you soon enough in London?”_

“Another month.”

_"That sounds quite fine. Enjoy yourself.”_  

“I always do.”

* * *

It’s after their next encounter that Elias gives him the final sentence of their game.

“I’ve quite forgotten what pain tastes like,” he says, face red and thighs bruised from Peter’s hands. Peter thinks about this one for a moment, but there isn’t any way for that to be true. He’s already got his truth, and he has only one lie left.

“What’s your judgement, then?” 

“Do I have to tell you?” Peter asks with amusement, fingers ghosting over Elias marred throat.

“It’s no fun if only one of us gets to be part of the game, is it?”

“I suppose you’re right.” Peter raises himself slightly and traces Elias’ lower lip with his thumb. Elias lets him. “I think you most certainly hate being alone.”

He gives a brief exhale, before his lips curl tenderly. “You would be right, yes.”

“And you very well know what pain tastes like.” He plants a kiss at the corner of Elias’ mouth.

Elias hums. “Of sweet ichor, aged wine and salted wind.”

“Is that a directed jab?”

“Take it as you will.”

He pauses for a second, remembering the other two Elias gave him. “You don’t miss being human.”

Elias is silent, for perhaps a bit longer than is necessary. “You’re not quite the gambling man I remember, Peter.” There’s an unreadable expression on his face, and it doesn’t even look like he’s quite in the room anymore. His eyes are more vulnerable, if Peter dares call it that, when he looks at him.

“Then you’ve never been in love,” he says quietly.

“When you say it like that, it sounds so hollow, don’t you think?”

It doesn’t hurt. Just this once, though, Peter wishes it did.


	5. (unsent)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of texts that weren't sent.

**yesterday, 11:57 p.m., peter:** Evening.

 **yesterday, 11:57 p.m., peter:** Are you awake?

 

 **12:15 a.m.,** **martin** ** _(unsent):_** _i can feel the ice of your breath on my neck, your hands everywhere they aren’t, my tongue tastes of salt and i want to tear you off my skin. why can’t you leave me alone?_

 **12:15 a.m.,** **martin:** yeah, why

 

 **12:16 a.m.,** **peter:** Merely wondering. I have a task for you tomorrow.

 

 **12:17 a.m.,** **martin** ** _(unsent):_** _why couldn’t this wait? do you enjoy seeing the rings under my eyes? do you enjoy it when i look more dead than i feel alive?_

 **12:19 a.m.,** **martin:** of course. good night

 **12:19 a.m., martin** **_(unsent):_ ** _why are you the one i send ‘good night’ to? is this not already cruel enough?_

 

 **12:20 a.m., peter:** Good night, Martin, I'll see you tomorrow.

 

 **12:48 a.m., martin** **_(unsent):_ ** _i hate you_

 **12:48 a.m., martin** **_(unsent):_ ** _and i hate myself for needing you_

* * *

 **02:25 p.m., daisy:** i’m going to tesco, do you need anything?

 

 **02:30 p.m., basira** **_(unsent):_ ** _you_

 **02:30 p.m., basira** **_(unsent):_ ** _i want you back_

 **02:30 p.m., basira** **_(unsent):_ ** _all of you, not just the shell_

 **02:31 p.m., basira:** If you could pick up some fruit, and I’ve run out of lotion, too

 

 **02:32 p.m., daisy:** what’s the brand again

 

 **02:32 p.m., basira** **_(unsent):_ ** _i don’t care_

 **02:32 p.m., basira** **_(unsent):_ ** _i like the scent of the one you use_

 **02:33 p.m., basira:** Nivea, I think

 

 **02:33 p.m., daisy:** ok, i’ll get those

* * *

 **01:23 a.m., martin** **_(unsent):_ ** _i need to see you again_

 **01:23 a.m., martin** **_(unsent):_ ** _i miss you so much_

 

 **01:37 a.m., martin** **_(unsent):_ ** _i don’t know what to do without you, jon, i feel so lost and empty, im scared_

 

 **01:42 a.m., martin** **_(unsent):_ ** _i miss your threadbare jumpers and smudged glasses_

 **01:43 a.m., martin** **_(unsent):_ ** _did you know that you smell of cinnamon, jon?_

 **01:44 a.m., martin** **_(unsent):_ ** _at least you did. i don’t know anything about you jon, not anymore._

 **01:45 a.m., martin** **_(unsent):_ ** _i feel guilty._

 

 **01:52 a.m., martin** **_(unsent):_ ** _god im such a mess without you_

 

 **03:59 a.m., jon** **_(unsent):_ ** _are you safe?_

 **04:23 a.m., jon** **_(unsent):_ ** _i’m worried about you_

 

 **09:00 a.m., jon:** Have you seen the stapler I lent you?

 

 **10:05 a.m., martin:** melanie has it

* * *

 **03:45 p.m., daisy** **_(unsent):_ ** _how do i know if i’m safe, or am i just sharpening my claws? Is the hunger going to return?_

 **03:45 p.m., daisy** **_(unsent):_ ** _do i want the answer to that?_

 

 **03:46 p.m., jon:** I wish I knew.

 

 **03:46 p.m., daisy:** stop doing that

 

 **03:47 p.m., jon:** You wanted an answer.

 

 **03:48 p.m., daisy** **_(unsent):_ ** _from another monster? what good is that to me?_

 

 **03:51 p.m., jon** **_(unsent):_ ** _sorry._

* * *

 **06:45 p.m., peter:** I’ll be at sea for two months.

 

 **06:46 p.m., elias** ** _(unsent):_** _i’d let the eye have every last scrap of me if it meant you stayed a while longer_

 **06:46 p.m., elias** ** _(unsent):_** _i hate loneliness_

 **06:47 p.m., elias** ** _(unsent):_** _and yet you are its purest form and i crave you like a goddamn addict_

 

 **07:12 p.m., elias:** I hope you enjoy your trip.

* * *

 **12:03 a.m., jon** **_(unsent):_ ** _is it my fault?_

 **12:03 a.m., jon** **_(unsent):_ ** _i’m sorry_

 

 **12:26 a.m., jon** **_(unsent):_ ** _you deserved better_

 

 **12:52 a.m., jon** **_(unsent):_ ** _you and sasha both_ _  
_ ****

* * *

1 **0:23 p.m., melanie** ** _(unsent):_** _is it wrong to love a monster?_

 **10:23 p.m., melanie** **_(unsent):_ ** _red kisses, crimson nails, tender olive skin and words like silk−_

 **10:23 p.m., melanie** **_(unsent):_ ** _why does that make a monster?_

 **11:04 p.m., melanie** **_(unsent):_ ** _i love you_

 **11:05 p.m., melanie** **_(unsent):_ ** _why can’t i just say that to you?_

 

 **12:52 a.m., melanie:** when are you visiting again?

 

 **11:05 p.m., helen** **_(unsent):_ ** _anytime you w_

 **11:05 p.m., helen** **_(unsent):_ ** _are you sure this is safe for you? are you sure this is what you want?_

 **11:05 p.m., helen:** what about tomorrow?

 

 **11:05 p.m., melanie** **_(unsent):_ ** _tomorrow’s a land that doesn’t exist, and you tell me to wait with the sand slipping through my fingers. don’t you feel it? how you drive me insane?_

 **11:05 p.m., melanie:** that works, I’ll see you then

* * *

 **08:01 p.m., jon** ** _(unsent):_** _why do you do this? do you enjoy watching from your cold, cruel throne?_

 

 **08:22 p.m., elias:** You’re not very subtle or quiet with your mind.

 **08:22 p.m., elias** ** _(unsent):_** _it’s not because i’m cruel. it just hurts._

 

 **08:24 p.m., jon:** Did Gertrude understand that too, then?

 

 **08:24 p.m., elias:**...

 **08:24 p.m., elias:** Do your job, Archivist.


	6. Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter can read right through Martin.

He doesn’t need to be Elias, or even any other acolyte of the Beholding, to see very clearly the emotions painting themselves across Martin’s face every second. The boy has a bleeding heart right on his sleeve, and if the eyes really are the windows to his soul, the blinds are open every second he’s awake. Peter would perhaps feel sorry for him, if he cared.

 

There’s sometimes sorrow, and loneliness is one that permeates Martin’s very soul. It’s longing wrapped up in that oh-so-tender anxiety, that fear of not being good enough, that terror of not doing enough. The very way he seems to  _ itch _ every time things don’t seem exactly his way, and Peter loves to dangle that hope right in front of his eyes, watching as he carefully balances that desire to do what is necessary, and that overwhelming need for someone  _ else _ .

 

But the feeling Peter likes most, perhaps, after his loneliness, is the shame that coats him. Shame at abandoning his colleagues, his dearest friends. Shame at the way he dodges them, avoids all contact with them and holes himself up in Elias’ old office with Peter. Knowing everyone knows who he’s working with − working  _ for _ − and being unable to do anything about it, when it was his own choice. Unable to protest, unwilling to protest, at whatever Peter chooses to do with him, do  _ to _ him, because he’s convinced he knows what’s at stake. 

 

Peter will let the illusion hang a bit longer. Let Martin have his comfort in the pretense of control he has made himself, and then let him drown in his poorly-concealed feelings at the right moment. See how much of his loneliness he lets Peter consume. How much of his shame was worth anything, in the end.


	7. Laugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt Jon/Martin + "laugh". Fluff!

They were lying in bed, with Jon’s back pressed against Martin’s chest, Martin’s arm wrapped around Jon’s middle. Martin couldn’t sleep, but Jon had told him that he needed to at least try, since they had work tomorrow, and Jon took that very seriously. It had been a miracle in and of itself that Martin had managed to drag him out of his lair down in the Archives this evening, let alone relax long enough to rest, so he wouldn’t bother Jon. 

He shifted slightly, delicately so as not to annoy Jon any more, and as he shifted his hand Jon gave a sudden twitch. Martin sat up slightly. “Are you alright?” He received a mumbled response, though he couldn’t make out what it was. “What?”

“Yes, it’s nothing,” was the grumble. For a person who stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, Jon was terrible when he was sleepy. 

“You sure?” 

“Certain, Martin. Go to sleep.” 

Martin didn’t press further, simply shifting slightly again to adjust himself and Jon - until the other gave yet another twitch. 

“What is it - did I hurt you?” Martin asked with worry.

“No, Martin, it’s not - it isn’t… hurting.” 

Martin paused. If it didn’t hurt, then why was he twitching every time Martin slightly even  _brushed_ his… side….

_Ohhhhh._

Martin couldn’t help but smile. “Jon are you-?”

“Martin.”

“Are you ticklish?” he asked with light amusement in his voice. 

Jon finally turned to look at him with a frown on his face. “Of course not, Martin, don’t be ridiculous.” 

“How is that ridiculous, a lot of people are-”

“Sleep, Martin.” 

Instead of granting them the reprieve of sleep, Martin tested his theory out by poking Jon in the side, who in return gave him a decent yelp. 

“Martin!”

Martin had to hold back a soft giggle at that, at having discovered Jon ‘Serious McStoic’ Sims’ weakness. “You  _are_ ticklish!”

“Martin this really is  _not_  the time for this.”

He buried his nose against the crook of Jon’s neck, before continuing his assault. Jon’s reaction was immediate - thrashing in Martin’s hold, struggling not to laugh involuntarily. To Martin’s utter delight, however, he failed, and soon there were creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth from his bubbling laughter. 

Only after numerous seconds had gone by did he relent and give Jon some breathing space. Once Jon had managed to catch his breath, he grabbed Martin’s wrists just in case. Martin instead just laughed, only getting worse when he caught a glimpse of the look on Jon’s face. 

“Sleep!” Jon asserted breathlessly. 

“You’re adorable when you laugh,” Martin countered, and though he couldn’t see in the dim lighting, but he knew the slightly sheepish look Jon would get on his face with compliments like that, sometimes accompanied by a pink tinge on his cheeks. But deciding to cause Jon no more trouble for the night, he pulled his hands free and tugged himself close to Jon, before closing his eyes.

“Good night, Jon.” 

He received a sigh, one of those he knew that Jon meant in the most affectionate ways possible, and a quiet - but much amused, “Good night, Martin.”


	8. Urge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin, with "urge", requested by anon on tumblr!

Martin knows Peter is trying to pull him to the Lonely. He feels the cold, leaden fog that tries to ensnare him and pull him away from the world he’s so used to. Into that quiet isolation, that peaceful loneliness that cries out to him so irreverently from the depths of his own memory, curling up and owning every moment of his own dejection.

He feels the call from the Beholding, both the relentless stare of Elias on his back, drenching his neck hair in that terrifying chill that washes over him every time he occupies his office; and the inadvertent pleading from Jon, that he doesn’t even perhaps always know that he gives. The one Martin can see in his eyes, wanting to ask, wanting to  _know_ , but not daring to ask for fear of compelling. The one he can feel simply when Jon’s around, the presence asking for his companionship, for him to be there. The longing.

And then there’s that gentle tugging. Puppet strings wrapping around his wrist, hand, mind, heart even. Sometimes he feels the way the Institute breathes, the air pulsing with that ever-beating rhythm that keeps it alive. He sees it in the spiders increasingly scurrying across the Institute, nesting in the nooks and crannies and darkened corners. And he can feel the soft, quiet whispers of that removed voice, asking him to join the Web. He can feel the way the strings just itch to latch on to him, to wrap around the Institute, to feel its heartbeat.

And it promises protection. It promises him everything he can really want - control over his life… control to protect Jon. Make sure he’s safe – make sure he’s not hurt.

He wants to remain uninvolved. But he knows the Web is playing on the thin strings of his insecurities, his fears and nightmares, and he can’t deny that the temptation is terrifyingly strong.

The Beholding isn’t doing Jon any favours. It doesn’t keep him safe - the incessant thirst and  _need_  to know keeps driving him to danger. The Lonely is a sweet slumber that may drive him away from the entire world – so far that he wouldn’t be able to even worry about Jon, perhaps.

But the Web, it can give him the chance to  _feel_ the Institute, every breath taken inside it, every single thing going on in it. And then, perhaps then, not only will this battle tearing him apart end, but so might he be able to make sure that Jon stays safe. And he feels that urge pull stronger each day, drive him further to that edge.

He now finds that he doesn’t particularly try to stop it, either.


	9. Proscenium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter/Elias, with the word "loyalty".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Proscenium": the stage of an ancient theatre.

**_act one: opening_ **

“Peter Lukas,” he says with a hyperborean voice.

 

“Elias Bouchard,” is the reply, drawn taut on the thin, pleasant line of his smile.

 

They haven’t met before, and when they do, it isn’t kind. They’ve known of each other — heard of one another, of course, the Lukases’ name is well-known even in lower circles, and _Mr Bouchard,_ the new and unpredictable Head of the Magnus Institute is collecting admirers and enemies fast enough. They meet, and it’s a far cry from an easy friendship either had hoped for when they can sense the presence of each other and their respective patrons in the room. The Lonely, a being of utter emptiness, an impenetrable fog, doesn’t work well with the Beholding’s eternal scrutiny and piercing gaze.

 

Their pleasantries run out far too quickly, and the discomfort is chilling in the room. Elias’ hand still feels cold with the static buzzing between his fingers, and Peter’s tongue feels all too loose at every one of Elias’ simple questions.

 

“I’m eager to work with you, Mr. Lukas.” His voice drips with a sugar-sweet distrust, and Peter doesn’t believe the lie for a second. Elias’ grey eyes promise the burn of flying too close to the sun.

 

“Pleasure’s all mine. Do call me Peter. It’s much less stiff,” Peter replies with a stinging smile.

 

The Lonely wants to swallow the entire room whole, purge it of the very presences of those inside it, and Elias can feel it pressing at the walls he’s carefully built up in protection against outside threats. The frozen hand chips at the wall of reality with every word Peter says, and it would be all too easy for him to give in.

 

The Beholding drives its knifing gaze into every nook of the office and makes sure not to leave a single being unseen, no matter how Peter tries to conceal himself from the incessant stare of the Eye. Their patrons give them only fear, in that moment, but it sits _wrong_.

 

**_act two: in-between_ **

When an angel Falls, their wings burn with them and become dark as ashes; the spine breaking from the hit is nothing compared to the agony of changing.

 

When a demon falls, there's nowhere left to fall and they simply burn from the inside; but the consuming fire is only a shard of the suffocating destruction of dying.

 

When Elias falls, it's a hard bruising across his body left behind by Peter's kiss. It's an apology brushed away under the rug, a forgiveness he doesn't want to hear. When Peter falls, it's the softest decent he never wanted that accompanies him down into Elias' arms. It’s whispers poured out against the cracked wall-paint, sharp teeth digging into his shoulder.

 

They try different places.

 

They met at the Lukas’ manor, dark and bizarre as it stood in its almost eternal fog that feels suffocating in Elias’ lungs. But it was all too soon that the faces, all shineless eyes and carved-out smiles, made Elias feel cornered. The Institute was out of the question, Peter refusing the consider the shrine of the Eye ever as a place for him to gain even ground with Elias.

 

It was only in the quiet isolation of hotel rooms and restaurants tucked away from the sight of the wandering eye, in someone else’s domain, that give them enough no man’s land to breathe. The fear from their first meeting hasn’t left, having simply morphed into a different kind. It is no longer a fear without trust, a fear of bared teeth and sharp claws. It’s now become a fear tinged with a tentative humanity, the side of themselves they’ve tried to take apart and away from themselves. It’s a burning return, and the ashes of themselves that remain from that time have a bitter taste. Loyalty is supposed to be straightforward — but how could it be, when they want to split it to two opposing beings? They don’t fit together, and they know that. But they can’t keep themselves apart.

 

**_act three: death_ **

Loyalty should be clean-cut and easy, but instead it’s a spilt glass of water that smudges the lines of their watercolour painting. Servitude of an Entity doesn’t come with perfection, and they’re far too imperfect in their humanity that nothing is ever easy.

 

“And if they ask you,” he wants to know, but doesn’t get to finish before Peter interrupts him.

 

“Ask only what you need to know.”

 

_What do I need, and what do I want? How do I know the difference when I need all of you, in every way?_

 

Instead, he remains silent, letting the petty whirlwind in his wine glass settle. Elias turns to Peter, and Peter holds up a hand.

 

“I know what you’re going to say.”

 

The other gives a dry chuckle, the irony bitter on his tongue. “I thought that was my job.”

 

“I’ve been around you too long. You’ve started to rub off on me,” Peter says, and Elias can almost hear the longing to return to sea breaking into the lie. He doesn’t want to stay, but he desperately wishes he did. Elias doesn’t want him here, too long around the sheer emptiness of the Lonely drives him up the wall far too easily.

 

If they were just a bit less human, they would pretend to be in love; a lie is a truth and none of it would matter anyway.

 

If they were just a bit more human, they would be in love; they wouldn’t have to worry about the way their souls tear when they’re together.

 

Their love could only be met with the grazing of teeth against bloodied lips, knives in their skin with each touch and the quiet prayer that it’s not forever, that perhaps one day they might love as they wish to. It isn’t soft, it’s hard and gruesome at best — it’s acid on Elias’ tongue, bruises on his back, crimson on Peter’s tongue and ice through his veins. Their loyalties hurt them and their love tears at them, and it’s better to never say a word of it instead. Perhaps someday the quiet words exchanged from behind a glass of wine won’t matter anymore, and perhaps one day they’ll be able to live without love.

 

But they’re still irritatingly human, and that day doesn’t exist for them. Not now. Their loyalty is not theirs to have, and it’s not theirs to give.


	10. Cadmean Victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt Martin (JonMartin or gen) and "guardian". Enjoy!

_ What is the recipe to destroy oneself? _

It’s a pint of dizzying loneliness, carefully prepared over years of abandonment, with emotions left unsaid for too long. They give it a slight bitterness, but not enough to sour it. To let it sour is to turn dark and empty. Don’t let yourself die in the process. 

_ (He’s alone in his room clutching the duvet closer when it’s the only thing that will keep him safe, keep him warm. He feels empty.)  _

Stir well, pouring into the mix a cup of sharp-toothed anger – the various other emotions aren’t enough, but repressed anger will fix that immediately. It gives it a taste, an edge one might never expect in such a gentle person. A bite that shows itself only in the most dire situations, because letting yourself be underestimated helps. 

_ (If he had the option to do the same, would he take it? Instead of having to watch his friends get hurt, die, other things he doesn’t even want to imagine or think about. He hates it. But he can’t do anything about it.)  _

Add a serving, depending on your own tastes, of an all-encompassing silence. A quiet that penetrates into the walls of the house and soaks the very wallpaper with how it drips from the air. Be careful- don’t put too much of it, or it may drive you to the edge and back, leaving only a shell behind itself. 

_ (Nowadays, it’s easy for him to isolate himself. Especially when Peter’s around, it’s so damn simple to just never see any of the other archival assistants, let alone Jon.)  _

Let it sit for some time in a place too hostile and cold for it. Let it wait, let it simmer and grow by itself. Don’t stop too soon, or you leave it weak. If you leave it too long, it will bear only hatred – vital to avoid for the next step to succeed. 

_ (He doesn’t know who’s an ally and who’s an enemy anymore. The Archives are terrifying, in the eerie way only a place like that can be. He hates it as much as he can’t leave it. It feels hollow, and he doesn’t know how he can win at anything when he feels he’s lost all of it already.)  _

The final step is perhaps the most important. For utter destruction, you leave a sliver of silver hope to reach for, a longing that carries through every hardship, a love that can survive in the harshest of conditions. A pinch of that is enough, and adds the beauty of it all. It makes for a masterpiece. 

_ (He doesn’t know whether he loves Jon, or the man he remembers. Perhaps it’s just the image of Jon he’s built in his mind, but he vows to himself that someday- someday, he will be the one to protect Jon, his guardian – perhaps even become a guardian for the institute, if that's what it takes – and not the other way around.) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cadmean victory: a reference to a victory that involves one's own ruin.


End file.
